Recovery
by Rose Tinted Contact Lenses
Summary: Post-DA:O to pre-DA2. After the horrors of Uldred's uprising, Cullen is determined to regain his sanity, one step at a time. T for dark themes and some blood.


_So, how did Cullen go from the broken man in the magical cage to the surprisingly (fairly) reasonable man we see in DA2? Here's my attempt at an explanation. Kinda fits in with _Armour, _but it isn't required reading to understand this._

_**{P.S: **__In case you're wondering - Cullen's epilogue slide: if you side with the mages in Broken Circle, he eventually kills some apprentices and runs from the Tower, becoming an insane, wandering mage-slaughterer.__**}**_

* * *

><p><strong>Recovery<strong>

**Cullen**

He repeats it to himself, over and over again, remembering Greagoir's words from days ago. _One step at a time._

* * *

><p>He wakes, drenched in sweat, from dreams of blood mages, demons, and <em>her<em>, reaching for a sword that was taken from Greagoir's orders.

The dreams of her are the worst, memories of his time at the blood mages' mercy. The sweetest torture. She is exactly as she was at the Tower, right down to the blue of her eyes, even brighter than the apprentices' robes, and he remembers their brief meetings, the suave warrior he always imagined himself as when he ran through what he'd say in his head replaced by this stuttering... _idiot_, words choking in his throat as he desperately tried not to meet her eye. A brief smile. She'd say she hoped he was well, mention having to meet her friends, and hurry off; he'd stare after her, trying to close his mouth and wishing he'd worn his helm.

Only, in the dreams, she gives him _so _much more than a smile.

* * *

><p>He'd woken in a bunk in the Tower, clothed in a simple tunic and wondering where his armour was. Another taunting vision, more tricks? He jolted up, ready to fight, reaching for a sword and helm that he realised in blind panic weren't there, when steel-gauntleted hands pushed him back down to the bed, and familiar helmed faces came into his vision. They didn't seem like the enchanted thralls of the demons, though the visions <em>always<em> seemed real, so _that _didn't mean anything.

It was only when one of them took off the helm - he berated himself for not recognising the sash of the Knight-Commander - that he stopped struggling, still breathing heavily. Greagoir sighed, looking him in the eye. "Do you know just what you've done?"

His breath hitched in horror as he remembered... _things - _some real, some not, but he wasn't sure what.

Soft lips on his, sunny days.

Amell, _his _Amell, in _armour _and with another man's hand on her shoulder. Him a broken mess on the floor, the repulsed pity on her face, in her eyes.

Bloodstained blue robes, like _hers_, the apprentices at his feet. Him still holding the sword, still breathing heavily, sobs echoing behind him.

Others, not in the Tower. Maleficarum, every one of them. No matter what colour their robes are, what their lies are...

A blow to the head, crumpling to the ground.

A cry of horror found its way out of his throat, and he began to struggle again. Why was he remembering this _now?_

He soon found out. "You were a gibbering, violent mess when we brought you in," Greagoir explained. "We've had every healer on you. I had half a mind to kill you for your crimes, but Kirkwall's Knight-Commander didn't seem to agree."

_Kirkwall's Knight-Commander? _He couldn't remember her name.

"Meredith," Greagoir added, the set of his jaw and his grim tone saying a lot about just _what _he thought of his Marcher counterpart. "Apparently, you're useful to her, if you can recover."

_Recover._

Recover from _what?_

"Hopefully, we have given you back your sanity. The key to recovery is: one step at a time."

* * *

><p><em>One step at a time. <em>

He repeats this to himself as he climbs out of the simple bunk - in the apprentices' quarters, since the templars' haven't been properly rebuilt; why does that make him feel a little sick, that he's sleeping where they once did, where _she _did? - and stretches, beginning the morning exercises ingrained in him by years of templar training.

* * *

><p>The first few weeks, they'd locked the door to the quarters; he would have food and lyrium in there. One of his former colleagues - a different one every night - would sit by his bed and tell him all that had happened since Uldred's uprising, the things he had done. He had begged them to stop, but they shook their heads, every one of them, until he had his hands over his ears, shouting that <em>he couldn't take it, why wouldn't they just stop... <em>

The day Yaneth had come in and begun to tell him, he hadn't screamed, just stayed calm. He looked a man who used to be his friend in the eye, and asked simply, in horror, "Who _was _I?"

Later that day, Greagoir had come in. He'd let him out of the quarters, handed him a mop and water, and told him to help clean the blood from the halls.

* * *

><p>He nods to the others in the Great Hall, collecting the lumpy, slightly grey porridge served here and taking a seat far away from them. He is allowed to eat with them, work with them to re-build the Tower, the templars and the mage survivors. He hears what some call him: the nutter, the murderer, the butcher. The child apprentices run away from him; the adults and templars are not so blatant, but make excuses not to be near him unless it is to guard him.<p>

Only Greagoir tries to talk to him; his answers are polite but impersonal, shame and fright of himself bringing his old enemy, the stutter, back. The old man just shakes his head, looking disappointed, and he makes a vow to _speak _to him someday. He doesn't know why it matters, but it does. Maybe if he can, he'll be halfway _sane _again.

* * *

><p>The day he looks Greagoir in the eye and attempts a halting conversation with him, he is handed armour and a basic longsword by Bran, taken to the training ground outside the Tower. The heavy steel boots' sound re-inforces his mantra. <em>Clank. Clank. Clank. One. Two. Three.<em>

_One step at a time._

_Clank._

When he reaches the training dummies ("scarecrows", the other templars used to call them), he stops, looking at them and trying to keep his grip on the sword.

_"Cullen..." _Bran says in exasperation, the first word said to him except for the ones used to drive him mad with guilt.

He nods, putting on his helm. "I... I will."

There is a satisfying _thunk, _straw sent flying as he stabs the scarecrow through the chest. Bile rises in his throat as he realises _why _the motion is so familiar.

He'd never killed anyone before... before Uldred. Didn't think he could. He was still young, still innocent, without blood on his hands. He'd _seen _a Harrowing, seen many, but it had never been _him. _Until they asked him to strike the killing blow at Amell's - some kind of sick test of _loyalty?_

Fury rears its head, not at maleficarum this time but at his templar kin, and he pivots, beheading the dummy in one quick motion.

He turns to see Bran open-mouthed, desperately trying to hide his shock. "Well, that was... quick."

He nods once, still breathing heavily and knowing that rage will still be twisting his features - Bran backs away a step at his expression, obviously thinking he's losing his mind again, but he forces himself to calm down, try for a smile. "It... was." He senses the surprise in his voice.

As he carries on his training, the others eventually joining him for their daily session, he sees Greagoir standing. Watching him. The man nods, and he does the same.

* * *

><p>A few days of training later, sitting in the Great Hall, he hears a voice beside his ear; he stops staring into his porridge to see the source of the noise. Several templars have sat down next to him, as casually as if they'd just asked for the salt. A nod of acknowledgement, and then they return to their food and conversations.<p>

Telling himself it doesn't mean anything, he tries very hard not to smile.

* * *

><p>He settles into a routine - he's good with routine, years in the Chantry have ensured that: Wake up pretending not to have dreamed about her. Pray he won't that night. Eat with the others and attempt halting conversation with them. Clean the halls of blood, corpses and debris. Train. Clean again. Eat again. Try to sleep if the guilt doesn't keep him awake, pray (again) in vain not to dream of her.<p>

Life goes on. _One step at a time._

* * *

><p>When a few of the others start training with him, cleaning with him, the attempts at conversation become less halting, more natural - work distracts them enough that they don't think too much about why they're here, talking. The words come more easily as he carries on.<p>

At dinner one day, Yaneth remarks that he has lost his stutter; it's true.

That night, he doesn't dream of Amell, and he smiles when he wakes up.

_One step at a time._

* * *

><p>Greagoir calls him to his office a few weeks later, gesturing for him to sit at the other side of the desk; his expression gives nothing away. "I have been informing Meredith of your progress, as she requested."<p>

"Knight-Commander?" He knows the feeling of betrayal is irrational, but it is still _there._ Information, fed for _months, _to Kirkwall.

"It was... necessary. Meredith is very pleased. She has asked for you to be transferred to Kirkwall, as planned. Soon."

"I don't even know where Kirkwall _is... _My colleagues are here..." He meets Greagoir's eye, and the templar in him takes over. "Yes, Knight-Commander. When - ?"

"You start the journey to Denerim tomorrow, with an escort. I shall send word. A ship bound for the Marches is due in a month."

Cullen nods.

* * *

><p>The walk is long and the sun beats down upon them - even a group of templars, physically fit as they are, can only take so much. He reminds himself that he has to keep going, make it to Denerim in time to take the ship. His feet pound on the hard ground, his armour weighing him down and sweat gathering on his brow, but he reminds himself, <em>One step at a time.<em>

* * *

><p>He swallows when he has to say goodbye to those he has known for so many years, has to step off Fereldan soil. Yaneth, Bran and Rannon give him a small smile, Rannon even waving. He nods back, smiles once.<p>

Then he steps onto the ship, and makes sure to only look to the horizon.

A new start.


End file.
